The Christmas Doll
to the little girl in the turquoise coat
“Is this your baby?” I ask the solemn dark-haired girl, taking the doll from her arms. She nods, not smiling, her eyes firmly fixed on her doll, a small, soft, baby doll, dressed in white flannel pajamas with pink satin trim, and matching cap.
The little girl, about four years old, wearing a turquoise double-breasted coat, leans against her mother, her chin just grazing the top of the card table where I’m wrapping presents. I’m volunteering this afternoon for a toy give away sponsored by Dolls for Daughters®, a Denver non-profit started by Jessica Bachus in memory of her daughter Kenzi. Parents can choose two toys per child. Glancing out the window, I watch a line of parents and children more than a block long snaking through the parking lot.
I almost didn’t come today. I was tired, and had plenty of things I needed to get done at home. They won’t miss me, I’d said to myself. I’m sure there will be plenty of other volunteers. I wasn’t in the mood for Christmas.
But you’ve made a commitment, I reminded myself. You’ve got to honor it. After all, my parents raised me to be a good citizen, to do my share. My father had served in the army and my mother had been an active volunteer—for the local hospital, the PTA and the Girl Scouts.
I miss them, especially at Christmas. My father died four years ago and my mother many years before that. They seem even more distant since we’d had to sell our family home after my dad died. Their house, filled with their possessions, comforted me. Now, with most of the tangible evidence of their lives gone, they seem very far away, almost as if nothing of them is left.
And so I drove across town in heavy traffic and with some difficulty, located the dance studio where the event was being held. Once I’d arrived, my mood hadn’t improved. Pushing past the people waiting in line, I stepped into a large room. Watching parents and children walk slowly past a long row of tables piled with toys, I felt depressed and overwhelmed. So many children. So much need. A woman in a pink shirt embroidered with “Dolls for Daughters®” waved at me, then called me over to help wrap presents.
“Which wrapping paper would you like?” I ask the girl, gesturing toward a cardboard box beside the table. She looks through the rolls and points at the one with Santa driving his sleigh through a starry night sky.
“Nice choice,” I say, rolling the paper out across the table and placing the doll in the center. Suddenly I feel my mother’s spirit with me, moving through me. My hands, with their short unpainted nails become like her hands, with long elegant fingers and immaculate red-painted nails. Maybe she isn’t so far away after all.
As I wrap the paper around the doll, I remember how carefully my mother had wrapped our packages, teaching me to fold the paper neatly and crease it with my fingernail to make it lie flat. Then all the ways my mother had made Christmas for us come flooding back: cutting colored-paper chains for the tree, spreading frosting on warm-from-the-oven sugar cookies, and making presents to surprise my father. But for me, the special joy of Christmas was my dolls.
Each Christmas morning, waiting under our tree, I always discovered a new baby doll. Once I’d found her, she spent the morning in my arms or sitting beside me as I unwrapped my other presents. I couldn’t wait to introduce her to her sisters, my other baby dolls, who lived in our basement. I’d made a home for us there, with a pink cardboard sink, stove and refrigerator, a small table and chairs, and bunks beds made from apple boxes.
“While I finish wrapping your present, would you like to choose a ribbon?” I push a box of bows over to the little girl and she bends over it, digging through the colored jumble. Watching her small hands, I realize even though there are problems in the world, greater than I can solve, what matters is giving one doll to one girl, just as my mother had done. I’m grateful to have remembered the gift of Christmas my mother had given me—and to pass it on. The little girl looks up and hands me a gold bow which I stick in the center of the package.
“Here’s your baby.” I smile at the girl, handing her the package. This is from my mother Eileen, I said silently. She takes the package, pulling it close to her. “And Merry Christmas.”
Turning, I watched her little turquoise coat disappear into the crowd. Sudden tears fill my eyes. Merry Christmas, I said again, this time silently. Merry Christmas from my mother— and from me.
by: Erika Walker a Dolls for Daughters® Volunteer
